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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399703">a lady red (her annual secret keeps)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony'>betony</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:02:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff"><p>Title derived from Emily Dickinson.</p></div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Writing Rainbow Make Up Round</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a lady red (her annual secret keeps)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts">LuciferxDamien</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In summer he must sit alone upon his cold stone throne but now, with winter’s last desperate blast, he kneels. The Dread Queen looms above him, as she should; mortals had believed her capable of mercy once, when that callow boy—who clutched his lute as though it were the lover he treasured— crooned before her. They do not make that mistake again. He certainly never has. </p><p>“Love is cruel,” muses his wife, and he wonders who taught her so. Was it that first burst of anemones rising scarlet from the ground like a heart’s dying cry, or the moment her half-brother came to these halls, not to rescue but claim her for himself? Or it had been earlier, when she had first entered the darkness of his home, alone but for his protection?</p><p>She never says such things in summer, not when she is with her mother. (He knows. He listens.)</p><p>There she promises life and laughter and hope, laughs and dances with her maidens as though she were one of their company once more. There she is almost a stranger to him, and he yearns for the year to turn and the shadows to fall once upon her face.</p><p>Not, he knows, that it should matter even if they did not. If nothing lives in the underworld, the opposite holds true as well: nothing there can die, his longing least of all. And yet, even as he offers his homage, his lips warm against her skin, he watches her long brown fingers reach upwards like tangled roots.</p><p>He will not let himself believe. He knows better than that. He bites his lip, and looks away from her glory. </p><p>Persephone, for her part, peers down at her husband, blood glinting at the corner of his mouth like so many pomegranate seeds, and wonders idly when he will ever understand her. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title derived from Emily Dickinson.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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